Writing a letter
The midday sun hides in the clouds
I try to pick up a pen and write you a letter
A deserted morning on freshly flattened white paper
Sleep is replaced by a burst of birdsong
Apricot blossoms flustered enough to fill the baskets
There is still a need to tend to the small yard of crops
Sometimes I am tired and stop to look around
Or look at the book that is as diffuse as the clouds.
The vegetable beds are neat and tidy
Sometimes when I'm tired, I stop and look around
Or look at the books that are scattered like clouds
That's how I suddenly remembered to write you a letter
And I wanted to put it all in an envelope
Discreetly and carefully
There's no wind at midday
The wind flutters its wings and flies through a bamboo grove
The sun is unusually bright at noon, and the sun is unusually bright.
The noonday sun is unusually quiet
The excess moisture evaporates in an instant
Seven of the most spontaneous men step out of the cracks of time
The wind doesn't say a word
Keeping the most ordinary work to themselves
Study the ink, lay out the paper, and collect your thoughts
Wait for a cup of tea
And then Drop an idle stamp
The wind shakes its wings and flies through a bamboo forest
As if it had never been here before
Clover fields
In June, I pore over the center of the universe
Green blood gushes
As if a flag tore through the wind's whispers
Beneath my scythe, the great sun cries out
A year is at least one of the most common work left to me. p>
Mowed at least so three or four times a year
Clover grows over and over again, practicing its upward climb
An unseen power wells up from the ground
Deeper than the sea
We'll figure out our own likeness from the clouds
Our mules, horses, chickens, ducks, cows, and sheep will be fed over and over again
They are destined to flow in their fresh blood
Freedom that can't ***
After October, the energy in their bodies is released
The alfalfa field is silent as a mirror
Shining out the joys and sorrows of past lives
The sky is high and the clouds are pale, it's waiting for a heavy snowfall
The Wenchang Pavilion
Once again dusk has arrived
A group of sparrows have already flown back to feed
The night washes over the green bricks and tiles again and again
A few pairs of middle-aged people have started to dance
The older ones have started to play tai chi
The older ones are being pushed by their sons and daughters in their wheelchairs
Look at the surrounding area
Wenquxing is sitting in the pavilion by himself
He has a lot to say about his knowledge of the world and the world's history.
Some people are full of knowledge but don't say a word
Some people get high school and some people fail
Some people become famous overnight
Some people spend their whole lives trying to figure out a single word
Like those joss sticks that have been turned into ashes
The words of the gods have been repeated by mortals
Reduced to a pile of snow-white bones
As long as the joss sticks don't go out
I don't want to see them go out. As long as the incense is not extinguished
Thoughts, souls will not disappear
By the Mubi River
That winter, it didn't snow very much in eastern Xinjiang
Three poor, down-on-their-luck scholars
Touched the words "Mubi River" on a stone tablet and took a picture of the river. The moment the photographer pressed the shutter
they could hear the sound of the river thawing
South Gate Square
the speakers raised the decibel level
and the excess heat was collected
a beast in a cage
not much different from a sparrow
and the familiar things looked like they were all in the same place. Those familiar things look different from each other
One person approaches and walks away
Their shadow is stepped on by someone else
Darkness comes and you and I need more food
Warms the heart and lungs
Wheat shouts out golden yells back home
Some wage earners sing the familiar "Wanderlust Song"
and Big Mothers' Square Dance mixed together
And finally release, release
As if it's going to be a stunning explosion
Wheat
Wheat is basking in the sun
Laying on a warm bed like poetry
A few extra clouds are its quilt
They put on a languid look
Wheat mangoes Though plucked
The hostility in its body continues unabated
What is important is the need for a ray of moonlight
Bathing, dressing, burning incense
Wheat should become a grain of wheat in appearance
More in tune with the tastes of all living beings
Bingxuan, whose real name is Chen Bin, was born in Zhuanglang in Gansu Province in 1990, and is now teaching at the First Middle School of Shizuishan City in Ningxia, is one of the most important teachers in the world. His writings have appeared in Star, Prose Poetry, Prose Poetry World, Jiannan Literature, and other newspapers and magazines.